Tudes et Noctua
by minnie313
Summary: A collection of OS about Durnik and Polgara
1. Oculi

A/N: Hiya! Here comes a little something that's been driving me crazy for a while: an OS collection about Polgara and Durnik. Don't ask me why, I just got stuck with so many plotbunnies, I just _had_ to do something about it. Since I like using Latin to make my titles _appear_ classier, that's what you'll get, don't be surprised by the language: who wants to guess what the title means? :p

* * *

 ** _Oculi_**

Polgara knew her husband had never thought himself a handsome man. And to most, perhaps, that would be right. Her Durnik was not a wildly beautiful man. For all his strength and the beauty, the goodness of his soul, none of his features seemed particularly striking.

And yet, she had always found him attractive. Intriguing. Fascinating. _Compelling._ There was something about him that drew you in. That _compelled_ you to trust him completely. Totally. The way his goodness was reflected in his face. The way he would always help – whoever was needing it. The way he put himself entirely in his work, mindful of those who depended upon him. Mindful of doing things _right_. In everything.

She had been intrigued, fascinated really, by the simple way he carried himself. Even when they had just met, she had quickly noticed _him_. His mind. His mindfulness. His wish to do right. The strength of his soul.

Words alone could describe him well, after a fashion, but could not embody the entirety of the pull she had felt towards him, even when they had barely met. Feelings that had inexorably drawn her to him – drawn her to look for his smile, his support, his approval, his attention – but that she had refused to acknowledge, even in the solitude of her own mind.

It was his eyes, she surmised, one day as she was watching her husband sleep. It was his eyes that she had noticed first about him. His eyes that had first drawn her to him. They were a soft brown colour. Something deep, warm, full of tenderness. A kind of deep brown, between cinnamon bark and almost dark caramel. It was his eyes that drew her in, full of gentleness, of compassion for her, a simple woman who needed help.

Yet, if every aspect of her husband could easily leave her waxing lyrical, it seemed that he was not be quite so attractive or fascinating to others. They tended to underestimate him. Far from resenting that fact, she actually revelled in the fact that she had been deemed worthy of the treasure that was his heart. She counted herself lucky that he was hers, and that she was his.

To be fair to those who had yet to recognise his many merits, it was not his outside that had touched her so deeply. It was his soul. So good and true. It was the way he smiled, so gentle and kind. It was the way his eyes shone, alight with some inner radiance. It was the way they had radiated warmth, kindness, gentleness, acceptance, even back when they had been strangers. It was the way his gentility shone through. It was his calmness, an unbending beacon of strength in the freezing winter storms, that would give you support whether he knew you or not.

Polgara was not foolish or vain enough to believe that this side of her husband was hers alone. His gentleness was such an inherent part of him, that it could not be so. No. It was not just for her. His eyes were simply the mirror of his kind heart. Her husband was a philanthropist, to whom human life was sacred. He could no sooner turn away someone in need than he had been able to make her leave the farm when she needed shelter. And she had seen this side of him in action often enough during their quests.

She loved his eyes the most, she thought, stroking his hair as he stirred, when he was looking right into hers. She loved the way they seemed to smile just for her, conveying just how important she was to him.

Lazily, she stroked his cheek, then kissed him lightly. His eyelids fluttered open. His eyes seemed to drink in the sight of her, and he smiled. She felt her heartbeat quicken, and she could not help responding in kind. Caressing his cheek with a hand, she whispered _"Good morning, my love"._ He gathered her in his arms, one arm around her waist and one hand playing with her hair. And he kissed her. _"Good morning to you, my Pol"._

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I live for your reviews. I know this is rare pair hell, but... ^^'


	2. Tandem venit amor

If I'm in rare pair Hell… why not continue being in it, right? Right. Nothing else to do but write it all, and hope the plot bunnies start to let me breathe a little, and write something for my (many) other pairings…

 **Summary:** After it all, she cannot seem to let go of him.

 **Rating:** T

As always, please review to let me know your thoughts on the story. Feedback helps me improve :) (and in this case, makes me feel less alone)

* * *

 **Tandem venit amor(1)**

 _tandem venit amor, qualem texisse pudori  
quam nudasse alicui sit mihi fama magis.  
exorata meis illum Cytherea Camenis  
attulit in nostrum deposuitque sinum.  
exsoluit promissa Venus : mea gaudia narret,  
dicetur si quis non habuisse sua.  
non ego signatis quicquam mandare tabellis,  
ne legat id nemo quam meus ante, velim,  
sed peccasse iuvat, vultus comonere famae  
taedet cum digno digna fuisse ferar.(a)  
_

In Cthol Mishrak, everything was silent. The sheer anomaly could be felt throughout the lands. It felt as if time had stopped. As if everyone was walking the twilight between the seconds. As if everything, everyone – man or beast, god or insect – was holding their breath. And the eeriness was permeating the air itself, giving the scene an ineffable solemnity.

 _Is he who died to live again?_ asked Creation.

And it was for the Gods and the Purpose to answer.

For Polgara, the woman he had loved, and indeed given his life for, the answer was everything.

She was tenderly brushing his hair out of the cherished face, her perfect hand sometimes pausing in a lover's caress. Trying to memorise every plane. Trying to infuse all her love into the form of the one she had secretly adored. The most beautiful woman of the world had lost all her shine, all her pride. The blow had shattered her spirit. And even her beauty seemed to have faded. The light in her eyes was dead, and it was all she could do to keep from wailing her sorrow. A helpless child. A broken Madonna in a field of dust and broken stones.

The Gods are creatures of such might that they remain far from the concerns of mortals, or so it is said. Yet even the heart of such a being would break before such a scene. So did Aldur's, Master of all sorcerers. His benevolent heart succumbed to pity for Polgara, and his heart went out to his beloved girl. He had known her from her earliest days. He had watched over her as much as the restrictions let him.

He could not leave her such pain.

When her Master asked her whether she would be willing to give up her powers, let go of the very core of her being, to live a mortal life with the man she held in her arms, there was only one answer.

She said yes.

Though it had come as gradually as walking, Durnik had become her everything. Were he to leave this earth forever, she would never recover. He was indeed that special.

Garion took him away from her for a few minutes and acted to revive him. An irrepressible hope had taken hold of her. Then he gasped. Coughed. Finally, his chest expanded, and he breathed for the first time of his second life. He opened his eyes, and she gasped in shock. Her eyes awash with new tears, a hand against her mouth to muffle any scream, she rushed over to his side, and threw herself in his arms.

A man brought back from the dead does not notice much of his surroundings, focused as he is on rediscovering every cell in his body, every reflex. But Durnik noticed felt her body hit his. Felt her perfume and her hair tickle his nose. Felt her body align perfectly to his.

He recognised right away what he had expected to experience only ever in his dreams.

' _P-Polgara?'_ he whispered confused _'Are you alright? what – what happened?'_ The woman in his arms was far too emotional right now, so Silk answered with his usual levity.

' _Well, you died, Durnik, but, hey, welcome back!'_

' _I d- what?!'_ he squeaked _'Is this heaven? Am I dead?'_

' _No, it's not'_ croaked Polgara, and she hated how small and vulnerable her voice sounded. _'You were dead, but… our Master asked that you be brought back.'_

He sat up on the ground, right next to her. During all of this, Polgara had not stopped touching him. He had awakened with one of her hands in his hair, the other on his hand. He felt as if her touch branded him, and he wanted more. He wanted to be marked as hers. Had yearned for it ever since they had met. Even in his confused state, he could recognise that. After all, he couldn't even remember what it felt not to belong to this woman.

Turning fully towards her, he curled a hand around hers, and brought it to his lips, ever so tenderly. With his other hand, he tucked an errant lock behind her ear so gently that she very nearly sobbed again.

' _You've been crying, Polgara'_ His midly reproachful tone not for her, but for whatever had dared hurt her.

' _You were… you were dead, and I-I couldn't… '_ she took a deep breath, trying to compose herself slightly before replying. However, she suddenly realised that they were under quite the scrutiny from everyone else around. She blushed, tongue-tied, and bit her lip. A clear sign of her nervousness.

' _I take it I am alive again?'_ he whispered, and she nodded. Gods, she hated it! She hated to be this vulnerable. Like a candle, so easily blown away by the breeze. And why did she have make a spectacle of herself in front of the others?!

But he… he was back! Wasn't he? She couldn't quite believe it yet. She didn't _dare_ believe it. Nor that he was here to stay. What if he disappeared again? What would she be once if he were taken from her again? One of her hands slowly found its way to his face, softly caressing his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. He kissed it too. Held her fingers in his, held her gaze for the longest time, as if he could see, and feel, her every thought. He'd always read her well, after all. That was one of the reasons she could always rely on him so very well.

' _C'me here'_ he whispered, and he took her into his arms, his chin right on top of her lovely hair, as her hands fisted in the fabric of his tunic, her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling that scent that was his, and his alone. The explanations could wait, he thought. It was clear to him that everyone was overwrought and exhausted. Yes, a single glance towards Belgarath confirmed it. The man would explain everything to him – later. As it was, he was loath to let Polgara out of his arms, anyway. The child Errand smiled at him, and very nearly ran to them. He stayed right where he was, though. Even he knew that it would disturb them.

* * *

Later that night, as they were finally in the camp(2), Polgara was still touching him. He was no longer holding her against him, had felt that it would not be proper to do so. He had offered her his arms, however, and she tended to press against his shoulder in a way that he felt was entirely _too_ pleasant, considering the situation.

But she did not want to let go of him. He was sure of it. She had not stopped touching him since he had awakened in Cthol Mishrak to find her face streaked with dried tears. He felt unworthy of them. Would take a vow, right there and then, to never again provoke such sadness in her if it weren't complete and utter idiocy.

They arrived in front of her tent, and she began to worry her lip again. It was obvious to him that she should not be left alone tonight. That she would not _want_ to be alone tonight. And from the way she gripped his clothes, he surmised that she wanted to stay with him also.

A cold sweat made its way down his neck. He did not want to ruin her reputation, such as it was, but he was also reluctant to do anything that could make her uncomfortable. Maybe if he stayed with her a while more, she would calm down and relax enough to sleep? He could go fetch her some sweet tea. That might help.

She took a deep breath and tried to find the strength to let him go. She was strong, she told herself, she could do this. She was not one of those foolish girls who could not live without their man! She was not a child! She was Polgara, for goodness' sake! She was not going to cry because propriety dictated that she had to sleep alone!

' _Polgara, do you need anything?'_ he asked quietly. He did not say "are you alright" for that would be a foolish question. The woman was obviously _everything but_.

' _I'll be alright, I expect, thank you, Durnik'_ she whispered with a watery smile. The brittleness of her voice broke his heart. Her grimace felt like a punch in the gut.

But the words… The words stopped him as he was reaching to hug her again.

She was telling him to leave her alone.

Of course. He had intruded on her for a long enough time, now. He composed himself and started to say goodnight.

But she did not seem to hear him anymore. She looked dejectedly at the tent, loath to have to spend one more night without his arms around her, scared to be granted her wish because he felt obliged to or pitied her.

Gathering all his courage, he turned towards her tent. He barely hesitated before taking her hand, and getting her inside with him. _'I'll be back in a few moments. I'll leave you to your preparations for the night.'_

' _You- you're staying?'_ she whispered, astonished. He smiled tenderly at her.

' _Well, I'm not leaving you if you don't want me to. And I- get the feeling that you need me around, tonight'_ he answered in an uncharacteristic bout of boldness.

' _But, and you? What about you, Durnik? Don't you want to be left alone? Don't you feel that I've monopolised you enough for tonight?'_ "Am I not bothering you?" was left unsaid, but it was clear to him from her awkward demeanour.

' _Polgara, I've apparently just come back from the dead. The last thing I want, is to be left alone.'_

' _Besides'_ he added, kissing her brow, _'you should know by now, that you can never bother me.'_

He departed then, leaving her to her nocturnal preparations, as propriety dictated. People might call him a prude for it, but he was _not_ going to act like a cad by watching her disrobe in front of him. She was far too precious to him. And maybe, tomorrow, after he'd hounded down Belgarath for some much-needed explanations, he'd tell her.

In the meantime, he was not about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, nor to let her deal with horrible memories all by herself. If she wanted him near, he would be near. In whatever capacity she needed. He was hers, after all, for as long as she wished.

* * *

 _(a)At last, Love is here ! Such a love that to hide it  
would give way to more shame than to reveal it openly.  
Won over by my songs, Venus of Cythera  
brought him to my arms.  
Venus fulfilled her promises: let him recount  
my pleasures, he who hasn't got any.  
I have no wish to entrust anything to sealed letters,  
so that none may read them before my man.  
It pleases me to have fallen; I am loath to compose myself  
for fear of my reputation. Let it be said that, worthy of him,  
I am with a man worthy of me._

(1) I couldn't resist. Honestly xD. I was browsing Tibullus' elegies (us Latin teacher do stuff like that from time to time), and I found Sulpicia's elegies in the _Appendix Tibulliana…_ Now, I knew of Sulpicia's existence (only female Roman writer we have got something left, lived in 1st century AD, for more info, check the Wikipedia page :p), but I had never gotten around to reading her, never had the time, honestly. And then, I found this little marvel :D This is a personal translation (to be honest, I translated it in French, then adapted it in English), but if you want to read another, better translation, I suggest this one, it's beautifully done, check for "Love proclaimed" on poetry in translation (the link doesn't appear properly) . #anchor_Toc532635331)u

(2) I'm guessing that it would take a little more time than that, but… poetic license! :), also: MAGIC! Because I'm lazy. And also because I feel that those poor people deserve a lift instead of having to compose with the Hounds and Cie.


	3. Phôs

A/N: Hiya, coming back to the world of Eddings' Polgara and Durnik with this: The first of a few OS from my AU! _The Anvil_ -verse, where the year is 1903, Durnik Davison is a smith in a quaint little Yorkshire village, and Miss Polgara McGrath is the schoolmistress. Garion is her orphan nephew. All the names for this shall be in Greek (transliterated).

* * *

 _ **Phôs**_

 _The Anvil-verse: First Meeting_

It did not happen on a special day. That is to say that as he woke up that morning, Durnik Davison did not feel the fluttery kind of electricity running through his bones that always announced a special day.

It was a morning like any other. A day like any other.

Afterwards, he would always remember it as the day "it" happened.

"It" was not something upon which Durnik reflected often. And never outside of the privacy of his _sanctum sanctorum_ or, as _he_ would call it, the most remote and private part of his heart. And even then, he did not try to name it, or to define it. He saw no point in doing so. It simply was, after all. And it did not bring him trouble. So why would he try to fix what was not broken? He would rather leave it be.

An eminently practical man was our Durnik Davison. He was a blacksmith in a little village like any other in the North Yorkshire countryside, where his family had been living for generations. His craft was regarded as highly competent, and he had never wanted for clients nor did he have any rival: everyone in the village went to him for their horse, their cart, anything that was made of metal. And even some things that weren't. The word in Kettlewell was that if it could be mended, Durnik would manage it. Even the people from the big house or the enormous farm of Faldor Bixby, just outside of the village would call him when they needed his help. He was a well-liked and respected member of the community, living his life by a simple motto: to always do your best in everything, and to try to do right.

Compared to this, "it" was just a small, a tiny little problem. Best not to overthink it in any way.

Of course, that small matter tended to flare up at the most inopportune times. Usually whenever something reminded him of Miss McGrath. But even that had become manageable as he had ample opportunity to learn it over the years.

He did know her given name of course – he was not _that_ desperate – but even the idea of making use of it conjured up fantasies that he would never allow himself to consider. She was above him. Far above him. And also, he suspected, far above anyone he had ever known. She was a _lady._ A proper one. Not by birth, perhaps, but in the fashion that mankind everywhere used to differentiate the best from the common females of the species. There was just something about Miss Polgara McGrath that…

Not that she lorded it over anyone. No. She even seemed quite oblivious of that status. By all accounts, she was a simple woman with simple tastes. Always ready to help, kind but extremely firm when the circumstances demanded it. Well, that was the general idea, anyway. And he always tried very hard to conform his own vision of her with that one. Especially when she was near him. They were friends, after all. And that was enough. More than enough, really. Or it had to be. "It" could never be realised.

Its origins, as it happens, were quite simple. As simple as the question of a child coming from the front of the smithy, which was always open when he worked.

" _D'you really think he can help us, Aunt Pol?"(1)_

" _The man is a blacksmith, Garion. That's his job to shoe horses. And it's not polite to talk about people as if they weren't there" she chided gently._

 _He had been working on something, and had to finish it first, so he barely looked at them, greeting them then saying he was with them in a few moments, before finishing his work and putting it away._

" _Now then, he said turning fully towards the woman and the child, what can I help you with?"_

 _He found himself falling directly into the bluest eyes that he'd ever seen. And they belonged to, he was sure of it, the most beautiful woman in the world. Who was saying something, and if he could just focus on her words ... Getting over it, he cleared his throat, and began again:_

" _I apologise, ma'am. You were saying?"_

" _Our old mare, Nana, needs shoeing, Mr Davison."_

 _He winced at the name. No one here had ever called him that. That was reserved for his father, or even his grandfather._

" _Ah" he replied, smiling. He was in his element, there. "Well, let's just bring her by, alright?"_

 _He moved to the side of the room and picked up his tools. Then, he made his way to the mare, expecting to have to remove the cart as well._

" _You didn't have cart?" he inquired._

" _We left it at Mr Bixby's farm. He was good enough to let us leave it there."_

" _You came all the way from Faldor's?" 'on foot', he meant to ask. "I'm surprised he didn't simply give you his cart or send someone here with the horse"_

" _It was just as well this way, Mr Davison. We needed to check out the village, anyway, find out where everything was."_

" _And the smithy!" interjected the boy with a sort of wide-eyed enthusiasm that made Durnik chuckle._

" _Is that right?" he asked the boy, really looking at him this time. He was a blond-haired, blue-eyed thing, deceptively cute he was sure. He seemed to be ready for any healthy bout of mischief thrown his way. "And what do you think about it, now you've seen it?"_

" _It's really hot. And dark. I thought there would be more light. And it's noisy. But I love it. Could I come visit, Aunt Pol?" he asked, turning to his parent for permission._

" _We'll have to think about it, dear. And only if Mr Davison agrees"_

 _She looked like she wanted to talk more, but he let them be. He had work to do. "Can we watch? You shoe the horse, I mean?" asked the boy._

" _Sure thing, boy. But you stay right next to your aunt, alright?"_

" _Alright. I'm Garion, by the way. This is my aunt Pol." He claimed sunnily. What a sweet kid. Probably an orphan then, if she was his aunt. Or there on holiday? Well, he wasn't going to ask._

" _And I'm Durnik. Don't say it to anyone" he whispered confidentially "but Mr Davison was my grandfather."_

 _He spent the entire time shoeing the horse answering the boy's numerous questions with patience. As children that age are wont to, Garion wanted to know everything. His aunt – whose name he hadn't yet learnt – looked upon them with fond exasperation but kept silent. She was probably glad of the break, and Durnik did not mind._

" _Well, all set, then" said Durnik patting the mare's head. Then, turning to the woman "Will we see you in the village, ma'am?"_

" _It's Miss, actually. Polgara McGrath" she answered, "We will be living in the village, so I expect so, yes."_

" _Oh?" Durnik hadn't heard anything about a woman and child coming in. then again, he did not always listen to gossip with a very attentive ear._

" _I was hired as the school's new teacher for the youngest children. And I shall have free use of the teacher's cottage"_

" _Ah, yes, I had heard old Mr Roberts was leaving us. He has a daughter in Rippon, you see. Last I heard, he was planning on retiring there. The cottage is fine, Miss McGrath" he added as an afterthought "There was even a garden where Mrs Roberts used to grow her own vegetables, and flowers."_

" _I expect it shall suit me just fine, Mr- Durnik"_

 _Then, the boy had hugged her spontaneously, and she had taken him in her arms. He whispered something in her ear – a joke probably – as she broke into a free, joyful laugh._

That was the moment "it" was born. If Durnik had remained blissfully unaware before of just how attracted to her he was, just how he _admired_ her, even before knowing her, the butterflies fluttering away in his stomach would have told him the truth. She had only laughed, and he was hers.

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As always, please, review and tell me what you thought :)

(1) I cannot do child speak. If anyone can help, I would be grateful :).


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